


Ashamed

by johnwatsonisagod



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Confused John, Developing Relationship, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Shame
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-21 12:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/900198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnwatsonisagod/pseuds/johnwatsonisagod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Just admit it John, you are ashamed to be in a GAY relationship with me." The swirling of the coat accentuated Sherlock's departure. John stood watching his friend (lover? boyfriend?) bang the door behind him as he left their flat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The usual: characters not mine, no money made.

It had been only a few weeks since they had become intimate. After a case, obviously, high on adrenaline and happy to be alive, falling on the sofa and snogging like teenager felt natural. A few more days, and another case, things escalated to the bedroom. And just like that, they had found that what they'd been missing all along was each other. 

Sherlock slept like a baby, as long as he could snuggle close to John, and apparently sex did wonders for his appetite. John didn't have nightmares, enveloped in Sherlock's arms, nose buried in those curls that smelled of expensive mango shampoo. He woke up rested, limp forgotten, ready to face whatever craziness the day, or Sherlock, would throw at him.

However, it quickly became apparent that as much as John swore his undying love in the confines of 221B, he was cold and distant as soon as they left the privacy of their flat.

For a while Sherlock was happy to leave his doctor to have his sexual identity crisis in peace. It's not like he was prone to public displays of affection, but he knew that John was, and it hurt to have him close and not sneak a kiss in between crime scenes, or in a cab.

Today had been the last straw. They were coming back from the Yard, and Sherlock had discretely tried to hold John's hand in the cab. John withdrew his hand and stared pointedly through the window all the way home.

Once inside the apartment, John tried to defuse the situation, hugging Sherlock. "Don't be mad. I love you, you know that. You are beautiful, and brilliant. Come, let's have a cuppa, and then I'll take you to bed and make you forget about everything, what do you say?"  
Those words only served to infuriate Sherlock further. "Don't you see?" he yelled, "you can't just love me and fuck me here, and ignore me out there!"  
"That's not how it is... at all," John said after a pause.  
"Yes, that's how it is!" Sherlock was agitated, his cheeks were red, he was pacing back and forth in front of the door.

"Just admit it John, you are ashamed to be in a GAY relationship with me." The swirling of the coat accentuated Sherlock's departure. John stood watching his friend (lover? boyfriend?) bang the door behind him as he left their flat.

The silence in the flat was deafening. John slowly made his way to the kitchen, and switched the kettle on. Sherlock's words echoed in his head. Was he ashamed of him? It's true that he had never been attracted to a man before, and he was as surprised as anyone could be to find himself in a gay relationship, but he had always been open-minded, his sister was a lesbian for God's sake! he always thought the one thing holding her back was her drinking, not her sexuality... 

John relaxed in his chair, sipped his tea, and kept trying to see what Sherlock saw. For the last couple of weeks John had opened himself to his flatmate in ways he never thought possible in previous relationships. He had told him about Afghanistan, his guilt over having to choose over treating one soldier while letting another one die, his frustration with his superiors, his horror at what war could do to innocents, even his resignation and acceptance when he felt death was imminent. He had told him about his childhood, his dreams; he had bared his soul to his new lover. 

He had to admit he was wary of making their relationship public. Was it shame? No, it was normal, it was part of trying to keep this fantasy world of theirs private. He was also trying to protect Sherlock, he wasn't good at relationships, if this didn't work, could he have a constant reminder? people asking him about John and what had happened?

Comfortable with his assessment of the situation, John picked up his phone and sent a quick text to Sherlock.

Come back, please. I miss you. JW

I'll be there in 5 minutes. SH

\----------------------------

John got up to have some tea ready for Sherlock when he got home. He was hopeful that his flatmate would have calmed down, and maybe they could sit together and watch some telly, enjoy each others company after this lovers' quarrel. He smiled to himself at the term he had picked to describe the situation.

He had been so absorbed in his own thoughts that the door startled him. Sherlock took his coat off and threw it in the general direction of the coat hanger. He missed. He repeated the operation with his scarf, and this time he managed to get the blue cashmere precariously tangled to one of John's jackets. As he continued to make his way into the room, the detective shoved his shoes under the desk, got rid of his socks, and dropped his jacket on the back of the sofa. By the time he let himself fall on his chair he was wearing just a white shirt and black trousers.

John approached him with a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits. "Welcome back."  
Sherlock didn't look at him, he picked a biscuit and absently nibbled on it. "John, sit." It didn't sound like an order, his voice was hoarse and there was a slight tremble at the end. John wondered if he'd been crying.

"I've been thinking about this, and I believe the problem, as usual is that you are an idiot, and as such you need an explanation for my observation." Sherlock raised his hand to stop John's complain for ever leaving his lips. The doctor gave a huff, and kept listening to the rest of his friend's reasoning. "You come from a conservative background, you played rugby as a youngster, you were in the army. All these are environments that would make you feel pride in your strength, power and masculinity. You are chivalrous and loyal, a perfect gentleman. Your upbringing and education also made you tolerant of other people's views and preferences, so you consider yourself open-minded, and probably would cite your lesbian sister as an example of this." Sherlock continued barely taking a breath. "You didn't expect to fall in love with me, but were willing to give it a try, after I came back and you had suffered my absence to believe a romantic relationship with me could fulfill you."

"Right on all counts, but it still doesn't explain why you think I'm ashamed of you..." interrupted John.

"You are OK as long as you top, you will kiss me, hug me or otherwise show your affection, but not in front of other people. You will not tell anyone about our relationship. Need I go on?"

"I don't want to bottom, I've never done it, and so far I didn't think it was a problem. I am not an exhibitionist, and keeping our relationship private is for both our sakes, I'm trying to protect you too!" replied John exasperated.

"You treat me like a woman, and I am a man, John! There are only so many times you can call me beautiful, I am strong, I can hurt you, and I don't want to be treated like a delicate flower. I bottom because I thought it would help you get used to the idea of having sex with a man, not for you to avoid dealing with my cock near your arse." The crude terms seemed so out of place coming from Sherlock's mouth, that John had to take a second to organise his thoughts.

"Sherlock, it's not like that, it really isn't..."

"Really? How long were you dating Jeanelle before you brought her to the Christmas party? How long did you shag what-was-her-name until you took her out for drinks with Lestrade and the rest of the Yard?" Sherlock's word were dripping with venom now, he stood up and stood next to the window.  
"Think about this: you are on the sofa shagging one of your girlfriends, and Lestrade shows up and interrupts you, what do you do? do you have a laugh? take him to give you half an hour and meet you later for drinks?"  
"Now think that instead of one of your girlfriends, Lestrade comes and you are shagging me, what then? You'd probably be embarrassed, try to cover up, and next time you meet with him explain how 'it's complicated.'"  
"And if instead of you shagging me, he comes and finds me pounding into you? what then? would that be different? why?" Sherlock turned and look straight into John's eyes, "Don't be a hypocrite, you know you couldn't face him ever again."

"It's... it's not that easy... I'm, I'm not like you..." John stammered.

"I know, I'm not ashamed to call you my lover, or to have the world know that we are together," replied Sherlock as he walked into his bedroom and closed the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot got away from me, but I'm willing to see where it takes me...

The knock on the door came just as Sherlock was reciting the atomic weight of Selenium, he had expected John to take a few more minutes, somewhere between Cadmium and Xenon.  
"Can I come in?"  
"Yes, always..." Sherlock was laying on the bed, right arm resting over his eyes, left hand playing with his shirt's top buttons.  
"I understand what you are saying, and maybe... not maybe, for certain, I've been reticent to make our relationship public. I'm not sure what it says about me, it's something else that I need to reevaluate about myself, I guess... like my sexuality. Maybe I am more prejudiced than I expected." John allowed himself a little smile as he tentatively reached out for Sherlock's curls. The detective leaned into the caress, and immediately recoiled, as if he'd just remembered that he was still upset with his lover.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry love. Please, I want to make it better. What can I do? Help me," John pleaded.

With a nod, Sherlock left the bed and started rolling his sleeves as he walked back to the living room.

The coffee table wasn't comfortable, but it was ideal for Sherlock's purposes. He turned to John, "I propose an experiment. Sometimes people need to be pushed outside of their comfort zone to confront their issues," Sherlock declared. "I don't intend to make you do anything you don't want to do, but I hope you value our relationship enough to try it. John?"

"Sherlock, I'm not sure this is the way..." John hesitated.

"Yes or no? You say yes, we do this. You say no, I go back to my room." Sherlock's eyes were on fire, devouring John, not missing a single detail of his lovers doubts, written all over the doctor's face. 

John felt naked even with all his clothes on, what was Sherlock really asking for? He loved his flatmate, had already put his life on the line several times for him. What could he ask that was worse than thinking him dead for three years? He was an army doctor, he could take whatever "experiment" Sherlock could come up with. "If that is what it takes for you to believe how much I love you, do your best," John replied, voice steady. "Or worse," he added with a half smile.

Sherlock reached out and traced John's lips with two impossibly long fingers. "I know you love me, I'm just not sure you are ready for us to be together..." he said, almost in a whisper.

\----------------------

"This experiment, what did you have in mind?" asked John after an uncomfortable silence, that neither one seemed to want to break.

"I want to give you a massage," replied Sherlock with a smile, turning his attention to John, his whole demeanor changing abruptly, from lethargic to alert and energized. "Strip and lay on the coffee table while I go get some massage oil." He suggested. 

"Here? In the middle of the living room? At three in the afternoon?" asked John baffled.

"Yes," came the answer from the bathroom, where Sherlock was throwing every bottle out of the cabinets to get to the one he was looking for. "Problem?" the tone a little too innocent for John not to understand that this was part of the "experiment."

Taking a deep breath, John decided to play along, and started to strip quietly.  
"Pants too," ordered the detective when John hesitated.  
Another deep breath, and the doctor took his pants off. He sat on the edge of the coffee table and felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him down.

"Turn around, on your belly. Close your eyes. Feel my hands on your skin. Let go, John. I got you."

In the silence of the living room, the only sounds John could hear were the ruffling of the detective's clothes when he moved around him. The cool air of the room gave him goosebumps on his naked flesh, he kept trying to move his head towards the sounds, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Stop squirming John," admonished Sherlock. "I'm almost ready."

Two warm hands pressed against John's shoulders, and he felt himself melt into the touch. The oil provided just enough lubrication to let Sherlock glide his fingers over John's skin, adding pressure without friction. The resulting sensation was divine.

The detective massaged his lover's neck, letting his fingers playfully tangle with the blonde hair. He traced the shell of John's ears, getting a moan from the doctor in return. Then he went back to the shoulders, and kept adding oil to relieve the tension in that area.

"You never told me you gave such amazing back rubs."  
"You never asked."

John's toned biceps came next, he was becoming more and more relaxed. Letting himself drift into Sherlock's touch.

"I love you like this. I want to learn everything there is to know about your body," Sherlock baritone boomed in the silence of the living room, as he traced John's spine from his neck to his waist, up and down. 

Suddenly the touch was gone, and John felt lost, without the pressure of those hands to anchor him. He heard Sherlock moving around him. The next touch was to his feet. Sherlock ran his hands up John's soles. The doctor stifled a giggle, but soon was replaced by a sigh as the detective's hands pushed up his calves and pulled his knees apart.

Sherlock continued up John's legs, all the way to his muscular thighs. All that running around London had done wonders for the doctor's physique.

"I need to do your buttocks, you have to go on all four for that," announced Sherlock.

"It's OK, Sherlock. No need. This was wonderful..." stammered an embarrassed John.

"No, John. We are just getting started." This time, there was no mistaking the predatory grin that Sherlock flashed him, as he grabbed his hips and helped him into position.

\--------------------------

This time Sherlock dripped the oil straight to the small of John's back, making him arch when he felt the cool liquid against his warm skin.

Sherlock's big hands grabbed the doctor's waist and the detectives thumbs dipped into the pooled oil, spreading it down the naked cheeks. He kept massaging the muscles, going back to the thighs, and making sure that no area was neglected.

"You are not relaxing John. I thought you were enjoying yourself," commented Sherlock.

"This position is not very comfortable. That's all. Are you almost done?"

"I still have a while to go. Why don't you drop your head on your arms? Your weight will be supported by your arms and shoulders, instead of just your elbows. That should make it better." Was Sherlock's helpful response.

John debated whether to follow the detective's suggestion. He was uncomfortable, and his arms, that had been so relaxed just a few minutes ago, were burning from holding him up; but dropping his shoulders would leave him even more exposed. Exposed to what? This was Sherlock, the love of his life, why was he so reluctant to put himself in that position? It was fine, it was all fine.

Sherlock smiled when John adjusted his arms, and relaxed his head over the crook of his elbow.

\---------------------------

The argument had left him drained, and the back rub relaxed him, so John's mind had not had a chance to supply many arousing thoughts in the last couple of hours, but as Sherlock's hands made their way up his inner thighs, gliding smoothly, right between a tickle and a caress, he felt his cock stir with interest.

"How about we take this to the bedroom?" suggested John, and his breath hitched when Sherlock's thumbs traced the crease between his thighs and his buttocks.

"I think we are doing just fine here, John," came the reply, as a hand carefully snaked between the doctor's legs to cup his balls.

The detective leaned with his elbow on John's leg, to indicate that he should move it. John spread his knees apart, and was rewarded by a careful squeeze of his sack. The next thing he felt was oil, dripping down the cleft of his arse. He couldn't avoid clenching when the oil slipped past his hole, but immediately let go when Sherlock caught the drops and spread the lubricant up his shaft.

In no time, John was blissfully thrusting into Sherlock wet fist, his foreskin being pushed and pulled over the glans by the detective's skillful fingers, the palm of his hand putting pressure on the base of his cock.

John felt Sherlock's other hand kneading his buttocks, getting closer and closer to his pucker. He fought his impulse to clench his arse, he tried to twist himself out of the way, but the other hand relentlessly jerking him off was proving too tantalizing to give up, he moaned loudly when the hand slid all the way to the base of his cock, and back to the tip. The sensation was so intense, he kept opening himself up to give Sherlock more access, pushing his arse up and his knees out, couldn't stop himself from groaning loudly when he felt the detective lick shamelessly around his rim.

"Stop Sherlock, stop!" John managed to voice his complain between thrusts.

"Are you sure you want me to stop, John?" teased Sherlock while circling just one finger very lightly around the twitching hole, still stimulating the doctor's cock.

"No, I want more, but not like this. Just... I want to cum, but stop playing with me, let me go..." John pleaded confused.

"I'm not holding you down. You can leave whenever you want," Sherlock explained. "I was just giving my 'boyfriend' a massage, and things progressed, as this things sometimes do, and here we are... This never happened to you before? With a girlfriend, maybe? Come on, John, don't tell me you never offered a back rub that got a little out of hand?" a thumb over the head of John's cock added emphasis to the argument.

The doctor couldn't argue, he kept pushing into the fist, that was too lose to take him over the edge. He felt the tip of a finger applying slight pressure to his entrance. He was torn between leaning into the intrusion and searching for more friction.

The finger was replaced by a tongue, and John had to surrender to the wet muscle opening him up. When the tongue trailed down to his bollocks, and Sherlock swiftly swirled them around, the added sensation distracted John from the newly lubricated finger that slid all the way to the second knuckle.

Sherlock kept stroking his lover's cock, while he smoothly pumped that one finger in and out. Each time a little deeper, trying to reach John's prostate.

John was writhing and moaning, he was desperate for release, he pushed and thrusted, he was so close.

The voices came to him through the fog that was enveloping his brain. A door, some shuffling, a familiar conversation. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson, downstairs. 

"Sherlock, did you lock the door?" John tried to confirm, while rolling his eyes after a particularly exquisite twist of the detective wrist .

"Did you?" replied Sherlock, reaching the extra half-inch to graze the doctor's sweet spot, and bringing a curse to his lips.

"Stop it. It's not funny! Lock the dooooooooooor..." the doctor pushed the words out, his frustration becoming visible in the way he grabbed the edge of the table. White-knuckled and tense, he tried to stand up, but another stroke to his prostate had him falling back, his whole body rebelling against the idea of not getting satisfaction after being so masterfully teased.

"My hands are busy," Sherlock sounded bored now, "and, what's the worst that could happen, John? We are two consenting adults, in a loving relationship, it's whoever comes through that door's fault if they get an eyeful. They should call ahead, or learn to knock."

"I'm not... I don't want them to see me... like this," John managed, his breath was steadying, but he was becoming more enraged and less aroused by the second.

"Let me make you cum, and you'll relax and feel much better," offered the detective, continuing his ministrations with renewed vigor.

The anger and frustration that had been building up inside the doctor reached the tipping point, and he twisted around, swatting Sherlock's hand off of him. "They will not see me like this! I am not a bitch in heat!"

Hurt flashed through Sherlock's eyes, but it was very quickly replaced by rage. He pulled the doctor's head back by the hair, and growled, "Is that what I am to you? A bitch in heat? Is that what you think when you are pounding into me? When you see me in all fours excited to be with you?"

"No, I'm sorry, I'm sorry... it's not what I meant." Tears were coming down the doctor's face, he was sobbing uncontrollably, trying to find the words to explain what he himself didn't understand.

"John, I love you and I need you more than I ever would feel comfortable admitting to anyone else, but you have to think about what you want. If we are together, it doesn't matter who does what in the bedroom, you automatically become a poof, a homo, a faggot, queer, gay! If you can't live with that, you can't be with me." 

Sherlock stood, and on his way to the bedroom, as an afterthought, added," By the way, Lestrade was just picking up an envelope that I'd left for him with Mrs. Hudson."

As he watched Sherlock leave, John felt his cock aching and deflated, his bollocks full and lacking release, his buttocks covered in oil. He couldn't stop crying, and he still wasn't sure why.


	3. Chapter 3

Most people believed Sherlock to be extremely impatient. Those that had been able to observe him monitoring a chemical reaction for hours on end, or recording the effects of mold on decaying flesh during weeks, knew better. The detective had learned that time was an inevitable variable in any experiment, and as such, he recognised its importance to achieve the expected result. So, he gave John time. He didn't push, he didn't smother, he didn't even cuddle next to him when the doctor felt asleep on the sofa and looked positively adorable. If they were meant to have a relationship, John would have to get there on his own terms.

The doctor settled into his old routine. He made tea, read the paper, and inevitably found himself in the same room as his flatmate. Their silence was more uncomfortable than companionable, but it was better than not having each other. Their love still managed to seep through the frustration, shame, doubt, and insecurities. They both tried to keep busy, but each caught the other staring at one time or another.

By the end of the week, the flat felt cold and both friends were miserable without the other's embrace. John made two cups of tea while Sherlock tuned his violin. The doctor sat to listen to the detective play, and the sweet melody made him smile for the first time since their "experiment." 

Sherlock kept playing as night fell. In the dark, maybe because he felt safer knowing that his lover couldn't deduce his every gesture, John finally got the courage to talk.

"If you were a woman, I would get you flowers," he started, his voice a little rough after being quiet for so long. "If you were one of my mates, I would take you to the pub for a pint."  
And after a sigh he continued, "I think one of the problems I have is that because I've never been in a relationship with a bloke, I'm not sure what's expected..."

Even in the dark Sherlock could tell that John was staring at the floor, wringing his hands. "Well, I've never been in a relationship with a bloke either, or a woman, so I guess you have the advantage here, John," replied Sherlock, stifling a giggle.

"You know what I mean, you git!"

"I know, but really, I have no idea how we are 'supposed' to behave with each other. I always thought we got along just fine, I am brilliant, you are an idiot. What else is there? Why are you trying to make it difficult?" pondered Sherlock.

John couldn't help laughing. "I'm being serious, and you are taking the piss..."

"Serious... Let's be. I'm here." Still in the dark, Sherlock found his chair, and landed with a thump.

"When I was a kid I was always picked on for being so short," John started. "As I got older, I was still short but I was stronger, and I took it upon myself to defend others from going through the same. I got beaten up for standing up for my sister when she came out. I got into fights in the Army because I wouldn't let other soldiers call each other names."

"Until last week," and John's voice broke at the memory, "I believed my own self-righteous bullshit..."

"You are a very tolerant man, John. But tolerance is not the same as acceptance or even approval."

"I fought so hard to get the meager recognition I've gotten. As a soldier, and as a physician. I could hear the taunts from my rugby mates in my head. There is a world out there that will see me differently, and I'm not sure I can face it." John was thankful for the darkness, he couldn't have faced Sherlock now.

"You wouldn't do it alone..." there was sadness in the detective's voice. "I recognise your contribution to the Work, and your courage, and your credentials as a doctor, and your skills as marksman, and your invaluable efforts to 'socialise' me..."

"I couldn't ask for more, love. I don't deserve you." Tears welled in John's eyes. 

This time the silence that fell on 221B was full of emotion and unspoken promises.

\------------------------

Sherlock stood up and stretched. He turned one of the table lamps, casting the living room in a soft yellow glow, and grabbing a blanket moved over to the sofa.

"Are you coming?" he asked John, lifting one corner of the blanket in invitation.

The doctor joined him, tugging his legs under the pillows, and letting the blanket fall on his knees.

The doctor thought carefully about his next question. He went for: "How did you come out? As gay, I mean..."

"Yes, I guessed as much... I believe I never did." John could hear the smile in Sherlock's words, as if he himself was surprised to acknowledge this.  
"I was always a freak, so there was no need for me to go into any details as to what kind of interests I pursued."

After a thoughtful pause, the detective continued, "Also, I never identified as gay. I am not easily interested in other people, much less aroused by them. The few times that I've been, I've never confined myself to one gender, it was more about if that person could keep me engaged. It's never happened for more than a few encounters, and I wouldn't consider any of those liaisons a relationship. You know that I am less emotionally responsive than most partners would deem satisfying. I don't believe I can deal with the complexity of emotions that women can display. However, the emotional range of the average British male might be achievable with some encouragement and proper incentives." There was a wink at the end of that sentence, for emphasis. John blushed, a warm feeling spreading through him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter to keep things going :)
> 
>    
> 08/16/13 - Update - Chapter 4 (Edited): After reading the comments on this chapter, I decided to take the meeting with Mycroft out. My plan wasn't for Mycroft to solve everything, but to point out that Sherlock was more affected by the developments at 221B than John knew/had noticed. I didn't do a good job communicating this, and lost the thread somewhere in there. So... I'm backing up a bit, and hopefully can get the story going again. Thank you for you patience, kudos, comments, etc.
> 
> Special thanks to QueenLadyAnne for providing constructive criticism in a kind and gracious manner, and giving me a little push to keep trying.
> 
>  
> 
> -

Cuddling in front of the tv and the occasional stolen kiss weren't enough for John anymore. He missed sharing the shower with Sherlock, even if he had to spend ten minutes cleaning all the water after they were done. He missed sleeping together, his nightmares had return, and he knew the detective wasn't resting either. John missed Sherlock's skin, his scent, his warm body pressing next to him. But more than anything he missed the intimacy they'd had, those long nights, with their bodies intertwined, just talking and caressing each other, those nights that felt like they were the only two people on earth.

"I need you." John's words made Sherlock look up from his book.

"You are indispensable to me too, John," came the retort.

"I want to be with you again," continued the doctor, hopeful.

"We were never apart."

The comment brought a tiny smile to John's lips. "You know what I'm talking about, like before..."

John wasn't prepared for the sadness and gravity that he saw in Sherlock's eyes.

"I'm afraid that would be unacceptable. I already explained the reasons why you are not ready to pursue a serious relationship with me. I know you are aroused by me, and I bring you comfort, but that is not enough basis for a long term relationship. Our current arrangement is satisfactory," with a tone of finality the detective delivered the last line and went back to his book.

John had to fight the urge to grab Sherlock, yell at him that 'satisfactory' wasn't enough, but guilt overrode anger. He clenched his fists instead, willing himself not to react. Taking a deep breath, John did the only thing he could, he left Baker Street without saying a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the changes and short chapter. I'm trying to get back on track, and hope chapter 5 makes up for it.   
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory for John (that's why the added M/F tag, don't worry!)  
> Trying to set up the significance of shame in his perception of self.  
> I hope it's not too awful!
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
>  
> 
> 08/19/13 - one last edit

John walked until he could finally feel his head starting to clear. He let his mind wander, taking in his surroundings, the sounds of the city, the people, the shops. He ordered a cup of tea at a cafe and went to the nearby park to sit and enjoy his steaming beverage.

Dr. John Hamish Watson, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, was loyal, courageous, honourable to a fault. He was trusted by his patients, and respected by his colleagues.

John thought of how their perception of him would change if they knew his secrets. He wasn't thinking about Sherlock now, he thought of Emma, the first person that John ever felt truly understood him, and how ashamed he was to this day of his affair with his, at the time, best friend's fiancee.

Will and John had been through basic training together, and they stayed in touch when John left to finish his residency. Fate brought them back together when Will was assigned to a post in London, and quickly the two of them became inseparable.

When Will met Emma, he immediately introduced her to John, and the three of them shared many nights at the pub. One of four kids, she was comfortable with their salty language, and could even keep up with their drinking.

John admired her easy charm, the way she could laugh at a raunchy joke one second, and look completely demure and ladylike the next (usually when the waiter came to ask them to keep it down if they didn't want to get kicked out of the restaurant...), how she could make anyone feel welcome at their table, be it one of John's conquests or more of their loud army mates.

It didn't matter how much John fantasized about her, Corporal Watson (he wasn't a Captain yet...) didn't steal his mate's girlfriends. He was dependable, honourable, and loyal. John dealt with his infatuation the only way he knew how, long wanking sessions, unsatisfying one-night stands that earned him a reputation for being a Casanova, and self-sabotaging any potential long-term relationship that came his way. Well, at least one could depend on John to repeat his pattern...

It could have stayed at that, but Emma kept finding ways to push his buttons. At first John thought it was him imagining things, just his mind twisting her words to fit his fantasy, but as she got bolder he couldn't deny anymore that she was trying to provoke him. 

"'Three Continents Watson' and what did you do to earn that nickname, soldier?" she asked him one day, as they were getting some beers to bring over to their table. She could blame the crowd, but John decided there was no need for her to be pressed that close to him as she got the bottles and with a wiggle of her hips turned around to find their table. John was left with three bottles, an open mouth, and very tight pants, trying to make his way back without embarrassing himself.

Every time they saw each other, the tension between them would escalate. Will was oblivious to their little game, and missed most of the double entendres that the other two would slip in the conversation.

Lust was the only thing that kept John from being crushed by guilt. He would tug at his cock in shame, swearing that it was the last time, that tomorrow he would start fresh, find a nice girl to court, he tried to think of other women, celebrities, porn, anything, but his body refused him, he couldn't orgasm without thinking of her.

Ironically, it was her engagement that brought them finally together. Will called John to tell him about the news, and at the same time asked him to do him a favor. "I need you to take Emma out this Friday, it's her birthday, and I just got a last minute call for a hush-hush op in Baskerville. I already have reservations at her favorite restaurant, could you be a mate and go with her for me? I know it won't be as fun as going to the pub and pulling one of those tall blondes that I still don't know how you manage to get down to your level, but well..."

John's heart was hammering away, he heard himself agreeing, he even threw in an expected joke in there, but he wasn't paying attention anymore. Could he do this? It could be dangerous... Oh, God, yes.

\----------------------------

Emma opened the door, and to this day John couldn't say what color was her dress, just that her eyes were on fire, her lips wet and inviting. In that moment John decided that this time he would not sacrifice himself for the good of another, he would take what he wanted. They stared at each other, breathing heavily, both knowing that what would happen was inevitable, but relishing the thrill of the tension in the air, the electricity that made their skin tingle. When John moved, it was to grab Emma and kiss her like he had never kissed anyone before, like a starving man that has found the sustenance he was craving, he kicked the door shut as he pushed her inside, pining her against the wall, snogging her until they both had to come up for air.

They fucked with abandon, John still not believing that this amazing creature could be so responsive and so in tune with his body. It didn't feel like a first time, they coordinated their movements, they understood each other sounds instinctively. It was like they were made to fuck each other.

John thought he should be the one to talk first. "This was a mistake."

"Was it?" Emma was naked, slowly caressing her nipple.

"Yes, we shouldn't have done it. And we will not do it again." John was determined not to look at her.

"So, just to be clear. You are saying that the best shag of my life was a mistake. That having you fuck my brains out was wrong. And that you will never pound me with your amazing, thick, hard, cock until I cum screaming ever again," she punctuated each word with tiny thrusts of her hips.

"Please, you have no idea what you do to me," he pleaded...

Waking up alone in his own bed, John almost couldn't believe that the events of previous night had actually happened. 

\-----------------------------

It wasn't a typical affair, they didn't plan their meetings, but sometimes fate threw them together in the same place at the same time. In the end, they probably were intimate only a handful of times, frantic half-clothed sex, because they were so desperate for each other that they couldn't wait, followed by some undressing, desperate snogging, and more sex.

"You are like a drug, I crave you all the time. I think about fucking you first thing when I wake up, and it's the last thing that crosses my mind at night," a delirious John confessed, between thrusts.

"I want you to think about me every time you wank. I don't care what you do with others, but when you are by yourself, your orgasms belong to me. Think about how wet I get just saying your name, how tight I can hold you in, how you are the best I've ever had, and no one knows how to make me cum like you." Emma's orgasm pulled John even deeper, and her contracting muscles brought him over the edge.

\----------------------------------

He was ashamed of his double life. Sometimes he believed that it was even worse that nobody suspected anything, that they all took the unassuming doctor for granted, instead of as the threat he was.  
Like a modern day Dr. Jekyll, he lived knowing that he had a darker side.

He'd always been short, and quickly learned that he could be a victim or learn to stand up for himself. John had a commanding voice, and put it to good use. Seldom he had to fight, he chose to defeat his aggressors with wit and authority. When he was cornered, he had trained to be intimidating, and take advantage of his agility and reflexes. He surrounded himself with an air of righteousness, for good measure, and suddenly people respected him, looked up to him. He was more than that, but how to expose himself without losing all that he had fought so hard to acquire...

Captain Watson's moral compass could survive, as long as John's liaisons were kept secret.

\----------------------------------

Before leaving for Afghanistan, John called Emma. It was the last time he talked to her. When he returned he was too broken, a different man. He'd hoped she could keep her memories of him intact, remember him in his prime.

He had kept his word, he thought about her every time he took himself in hand. She had been a constant presence in his mind, until he met Sherlock. Little by little, soft curves had given way to hard angles, and long auburn hair had turned into inky curls in his fantasies. Sherlock demands for attention didn't include John's psyche, but apparently the doctor had been happy to oblige.

\---------------------------------

John walked slowly back to Baker Street, pondering what did it say about himself that he had been reminiscing about a sordid affair instead of trying to work things out with Sherlock. What was even more curious was that the detective had never deduced anything about it. Maybe the detective had a blind spot when it came to John... sentiment.

John could honestly say that what he'd had with Emma was, as high as the highs were, the most unfulfilling relationship (if it could even be called that) that he'd had. And now, when he finally had found someone to pull him out, make him forget about that doomed affair, someone that could offer him everything, not just the amazing sex, but the companionship, and the intimacy, someone that truly fulfilled him in mind and body, he was the one pushing away out of some backward macho complex.

\-----------------------------------

"You don't know everything about me," declared John, jacket still on, standing very straight in front on Sherlock.

"I hope not. It would be boring," was Sherlock's response.

"I've done things I'm not proud of," continued the doctor.

"Haven't we all?" quipped Sherlock, with a sad smile.

"I am not ashamed of you, or of our relationship. I am ashamed of myself. I am a fraud. I'm the worse cliche, the one that tells everyone that would listen that he is not gay, just to hide his latent homosexual tendencies."

"Is that what happened, John?"

"No! But, who will believe me?"

"The more important question is: 'Should you care about anyone who doesn't?'"


End file.
